What you see
by GettingThisOffMyMind
Summary: Established relationship, one-shot- John doesn't like what he sees in the mirror, Sherlock disagrees entirely


_**Authors note- Please excuse any mistakes you might find along the way, This little fic was written out of inner angst when my mother said that Martin Freeman was ugly and went on describing her reasons why. I myself kept thinking to myself 'its okay, to not like things, its okay to not like things, its okay to not like things! But don't be a dick about the things you don't like'**  
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_Round, scarred, wrinkly, pudgy, old,_ words like these filled his mind, every adjective puncturing the image staring back at him in the mirror. The expanse of his chest protruded from his hips, curving out in front of his body slightly. He raised a hand, dragging his fingertips up his stomach and out to his sides. He tugged at the skin of his waist, slogging it back and sucking in his gut. Angling his body, he tilted himself to the side and inspected the reform. He couldn't hold it long. Letting out a long steam of air and he let go, allowing his stomach to fall back into place.

John Watson wasn't one to be insecure about superficial issues like a person's appearance, let alone his own. As time grew on, he couldn't help but every so often, pause when he passed the mirror hanging from his bedroom wall. It gave him an excellent view of his semi-naked body, down to the last fibre of string in the red pants his stubborn lover/flatmate insisted he wear. With a heavy sigh, the Doctor took step closer, allowing his palm to press against the cool glass. The mirror extended from eye level and down to hang adjacent to his calves. Of course, having a full body mirror jutting out of his bedroom wall was never John's idea.

It was a few months ago when Sherlock decided, since he spent most of his sleeping hours in John's room, that he should convert both bedrooms together. Sadly, this decision was made while he was at work and you could say that he wasn't exactly overjoyed at the fact that when he came home, he found that his room was now cramped with God-knows-what of Sherlock's belongings. The consulting detective sitting up patiently on his mattress didn't give him any time to address the issue however.

His hands made their way to his face, leaning his body forward so his nose was inches away from the glass. John's finger's trailed over his cheeks, tugging and yanking at the skin. Ever since he was in high school, he cursed his pudgy cheeks and how they ballooned up when he smiled. He pinched his nose and let a tiny huff escape from between his lips. He despised the fact that it was so round, like a giant flesh ball smack down in the middle of his face. And of course there was the pressing matter, that most people face around this age, was the fear of wrinkles. He traced the lines of skin stretching out from the corners of his eyes and along his forehead. John raised his eye brows, up and down, watching his skin scrunch and fold.

Last but certainly not least, there was the permanent mark carved onto his left shoulder, jutting through his body like a crack in a window. It started from the edge of his collar bone, right where his neck met his shoulders. The deep impression caused a ripple effect, causing his skin around the torn area to go firm and rough. The women he dated in the past never kept their eyes on the mark for more than a few seconds. They wouldn't dare touch or even acknowledge it, in fear of how it might affect John. Sherlock on the other hand, did treat John's emotions so fragilely. From the moment that he laid eyes on the star shaped wound, it became an item of fascination. John would ignore the little spikes of pain that stung his body when Sherlock's fingers prodded it, tracing each groove of skin and mapping out its expanse.

John slid his palm over it, watching his reflection hide it away from view. He straightened up, held his shoulders back and put on a straight face. He took a deep breath, restricting his stomach back and flexing his muscles. The form didn't last long, his body giving up and slumping forward. It was blatantly obvious to John Watson that he didn't have his army body any more.

"Oh god. You are doing it again"

He flinched, his eyes quickly darting up. The strong urge to cover up and bark a 'get out' was fought down when he spotted the lean figure slouching against the doorway of the bathroom. Dark ringlets clung to his fore head in a damp tangle. The towel, John's towel, hung from his sharp hip bones, not doing much in the way of covering anything. Droplets of water ran down the expanse of his bare chest, collecting on the floorboards beneath him.

"Doing what?"

"That thing you submit yourself too" Sherlock Holmes stated bluntly, stepping forward and crossing the room. John's eyes were back on the mirror when he heard the gentle 'thunk' of the towel hitting the floor.

"And what do you call that?" John watched two pale hands make their way across his back and come to rest at the elastic of his pants, gripping onto the arc of his hips. From behind him, Sherlock loomed over his shoulder. John never admitted it, but he truly envied Sherlock's appearance. Pale, tall, thin. Three things he wasn't.

"Your self-assessment routine" Sherlock's warm, familiar breath crashed against the skin of John's ear before he felt a set of lips take its place.

"'My self-assessment routine'. Right"

"Don't play coy. You are fully aware that you do this on purpose. I have been told to be_ very_ observant John" Sarcasm littered through his voice at the statement "You have been standing in front of the mirror tugging at your skin for 10 minutes"

John's eyes rolled and he let out a short huff. "Is that a problem? You are the one who dragged this bloody thing up the stair case and hung it up, not me" John leaned back, allowing his back to brush faintly against Sherlock's chest. The detective took the message and closed the gap between them. His damp skin cupped John's, his thin body still heated from the spray of the shower.

"It wouldn't be an issue if you didn't take yourself apart and allow your subconscious to create an unrealistic view of your appearance"

"You think I am being unrealistic?" John titled his head to the side, looking up at him. Sherlock's eyes were locked on the mirror. Craning his neck slightly, John was able to press a quick kiss to his partner's angular jaw bone.

"Very" Sherlock's expression remained blank. "Look into the mirror and tell me what you see"

"I see a small, 39 year old man and his boyfriend" John let his palms press against his stomach, pushing against it absently. Sherlock's hands were just as quick, webbing his fingers with John's and commanding them to move with his, rubbing slow circles along his abdomen. The lips at his ear moved down to his right shoulder, pecking at it gently.

"Hmm" Sherlock hummed. "And what do you think of him?"

"Me?" John cocked his head. "I think he could lay off the jam and biscuits for a change" He grumbled.

"Do you?" Sherlock's palm pushed at John's forcing him to slide his own hands up his stomach. He abandoned them there, leaving them for his own exploration. Sherlock traced down, blindly running the pads of this fingers down. His index finger looped John's belly button, teasing the rim. "Do you want to know what I see?"

"Are you going to tell me something like 'your mother was left handed judging by a freckle on your chest'? Deduce my life out of me?"

Sherlock ignored the cynical remark. "I see comfort. Years of work, effort and loyalty soothed over and turned into something cuddly"

John couldn't help but grin at the word on Sherlock's lips. 'Cuddly' was definitely not something he thought was part of his flatmate's vocabulary. He shivered when he felt Sherlock's hands dip lower, passing over his crotch and to the start of his thigh before rotating back up. "Fine. Fine. But these wrinkles aren't something you can call 'cute'" This time, he heard Sherlock laugh at the observation.

"Really? It is common for the average woman your age to feel insecure about signs of aging… not so men"

"Gender has nothing to do with it" John reached up and pressed two fingers to his cheeks, stretching at the skin. Sherlock's hands snatched them away before any thoughts could rear their ugly heads. Sherlock pressed the two fingers to his lips, his tongue passing up one. "I'm older than you… well I certainly look it" John pulled his hand back, moving both arms to cup Sherlock's as they settled around his waist. "I guess it's the shock of knowing that I am all grown up" He mumbled. Sherlock's lips found a space on his neck, greedily nibbling and biting. His hips swayed forward, pressing himself down against the cleft of John's ass. The smaller man rocked back, letting his head loll against Sherlock's shoulder, allowing him further space to roam.

"Age is not ugly, John" Sherlock murmured. "It is part of human life, proof of living and experience. Every crease on your skin tells a story of how you have lived, stepped out into the sun. I feel sorry for those who don't appreciate that fact"

"No you don't"

"True" Sherlock's grip around his waist tightened. John's toes curled at the sensation of Sherlock's tongue and teeth grazing at the space bellow his ear, his scorching his skin. "But since you can't comprehend these facts, I am going to explain them" One arm recoiled, sliding down John's torso. Two slender fingers teased the elastic of John's pants, lingering just underneath the hem before dragging back up. One at a time, Sherlock's fingers mimicked two legs creeping up John's chest to rest on his left shoulder. "Let's talk about this, shall we?" His hand cupped around the jagged flesh.

John's eyes snapped open. His body tensed at the sudden fondling and his breath caught in his throat. Having Sherlock probe the wound was never a sensation he was going to grow accustom to.

"How about we not?" The army doctor found use of his arm, reaching up and grabbing Sherlock's wrist, yanking it away. The vibration of a displeased growl rumbled its way down John's neck and Sherlock's own hand was quick to react. It snapped itself out of John's grasp and found purchase on his shoulder once again. Meanwhile, his other hand pounced from John's waist, reaching down and dragging up John's inner thigh. When the other man's pelvis rolled forward against him, John nearly lost his balance. Sherlock's hands and arms held him steady though, pinning him back.

"This. John Hamish Watson. Is the most beautiful thing engraved on your body" John's eyes shot back to the mirror. The spidery form coiling him in its grasp had its arms curled possessively around his frame, a mop of dark curls turned out to face the mirror, hiding the owner's face. Sherlock's lips never left the space bellow his ear as he continued. "It is what defines you. Every scar on your body is unique, but this one especially" The hand stroking his thigh grew tired of the repetition and made short work of cupping over John's groin. Beneath the thin red fabric, the pressure of Sherlock's fingers needing against his prick forced the tinniest of whimpers from the older man. "Because of this scar, my love, I have you here. Because of it, you met me and eventually…" The fingers prodding the wound scraped along the rim before one plunged forward, jabbing into the space that once was occupied by a bullet. "I made you mine"

John's hands scrambled for something to hold onto, anything. Once they came to place on Sherlock's hips they bent, digging his blunt nails into the detective's side. The lips at his neck followed the harsh action, sinking teeth forward and biting down onto his skin with enough pressure that was sure to leave a bruise. From then on, there was rutting, Sherlock arching his hips forward and thrusting against John. Soon enough, the space between them was too great and John was turning in Sherlock's arms. Their chests pressed together, a set of hands found place in damp curls and arms locked around a torso.

There was nothing quite like this, John thought. Women were soft, warm and sweet to smell. Unlike Sherlock. The detective was sharp, cool and usually had the musky odour of the hideous couch rudely planted in their living room. Despite these facts, Sherlock was something that John could never get tired off. Sherlock may be a downright git at times, but he was his downright git. Lips and tongues collided with hardly any co-ordination. Like a couple of hormone possessed teenagers, they didn't break apart until they were out of breath.

"Bed" The one word slipped breathlessly from John and his dark haired companion complied happily. They backed up until the rear of Sherlock's knees felt something solid. The detective plonked himself down, his arms remaining lassoed around John's hips. With a slightly awkward clamber, John joined Sherlock on the mattress, straddling his lap and ringing his own arms up around the detective's slim neck. When John leaned down to close the space between them, he was surprised when Sherlock pulled back. Two sharp grey eyes peered up at John, a smirk playing out on his features.

"You are beautiful John Watson" He purred.

John rolled his eyes. "Alright, alright" He exaggerated his sigh. "Don't overdo it" Just the same as they had done many times before, lips were brought together, hands roamed and the rest of the world was left behind. John was aware that later on he would pass by the mirror and see the same flaws, wonder where his army stomach and his youth had gone. He decided that it didn't really matter, just as long as those little flaws were works of art to the man currently seated beneath him.


End file.
